Hooligan
by Mad Bertha
Summary: Walter learns a few things at the Lily Charlton Home as if he didn't have enough crazy in his life
1. First Impressions

Title: **Hooligan**  
Category: Comics » Watchmen  
Author: Mad Bertha  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Genre: General/Angst  
Published: 01-14-10, Updated: 01-14-10  
Chapters: 4, Words: 7,920

**Chapter 1: First Impressions**

_**Author's notes:**_

_Posted on kinkmeme, in response to captcha prompt, 'Hooligan 14-1'. Redrafted, with additional material. Many thanks to radishface for her excellent beta work!_

_This story is based on the graphic novel, it foreshadows/refers to events that took place in the GN, but not the film. However, it should work without the GN. The story is set between 1951 to 1975, mainly the early half of Walter's stay at the Lily Charlton Home for Problem Children, but Kitty Genovese and Blair Roche do come in a tiny way later._

_Warning: occasional swearing and derogatory language_

_Watchmen are not mine, no, I'm not a long-haired bearded man living in Northampton nor DC comics._

**1951**

Within the first week of his arrival, Walter Joseph Kovacs had kicked a boy in the stomach and punched another in the scrotum.

(These were areas which were hidden from view; he was not eager to give any cause to have to leave the home.)

Walter had been heading up the stairs to his dormitory when one of three larger boys at the top started talking in a loud voice, "Look, it's that ginger runt." They flanked the stairs above him.

"Ginger nut, carrot nose, pull the trigger and off it goes!" One of the other boys chanted. They were not the worse he had heard by far, but he knew what would happen, what his life would be like there if he didn't act fast.

"Oof!" said the leader, bent double over his stomach. This was instantly followed by the other's scream. Walter proceeded unhampered up the stairs without another word while the other children looked on, a few brave souls laughing at what had just happened.

By the weekend, the word had spread and he was left alone for the most part; some sort of honor code stopped them from tattling, their boyish dignities wrapped up in the rules of silence tacitly enforced among them with both knowing looks and averted glances. They didn't want to tease him, and he wasn't keen to get to know anyone either, so it did not bother him that most children gave him a wide berth.

All except one.

The boy who was kicked was the leader of the group and appeared four years older than Walter but in reality was thirteen, only three years ahead. Sam was not sure what it was about Kovacs, but, since the kick in the guts, he noticed a few more things about the crazy ginger nut. It was not as if he was that unusual. Many of the kids at the home had issues with their parents, most of them had done something wrong of some sort to land there. He assumed this was the case with Kovacs, and his reaction on the staircase indicated the reason he landed up with them at the home.

Sam was not happy. He felt cheated, somehow. Kovacs had just got lucky and now everyone thought that the kid had won; but the game was far from over to Sam. He was not stupid, though, he did not establish himself through leaping headlong into things. He realised that was his mistake with Walter, he had underrated him and made a tactical error. So he resolved to get to know him a little. Mind-fucking, he told himself, worked best if you knew the weaknesses of the person you wanted to fuck up.

A couple of weeks later, he was on the way to school, seated at the back of the bus with his friends, Dave, fully recovered from getting his nuts punched in, and Mikey, when Kovacs came down the aisle and took a seat near the middle. That's when he knew he was going to the same school.

They were in different classes, of course, but he noticed during recess over the next few weeks that Kovacs did not make any friends and tended to keep to himself a lot. Again, nothing unusual, it was a pattern with many of the kids from the home. Many did not start with the rest of the kids in school at the same time but slunk in when friendships and allegiances had already been established. Kovacs came into school smack bang in the middle of the year. The reasons for landing them in the home did not disappear and still played a part when they were moved to their current schools. But Kovacs was only slightly friendlier at the home, a place where everyone was a bit fucked up. Sam himself knew the virtues of keeping a circle of friends close, a lesson he learned from his father.

All the kids had to choose at least one extra-curricular sport, and Sam had been boxing for a few years. One afternoon, he was skipping rope when Kovacs came in. He watched as the coach took him through some basics and then left him to shadow box on his own. Immediately, he could see that he had aptitude, picking things up very quickly. He also knew enough from observing Kovacs that it was not a good idea to approach him straight away.

The judge was so high up, he had to tilt his head all the way back to look at him. He hardly spoke to Walter, but when he did, Walter made sure that he was polite and answered the questions, just as the lady said. He heard his mother's name mentioned a few times and lots of big words. At the end, the judge sounded kinder and told him he was going to be looked after. After that, some more things were said that he didn't understand.

"Where am I going?" he asked after.

The woman, who had introduced herself as his 'case worker', said, "Back to where you've been staying." Walter had been staying at an 'almshouse.' "But don't worry, you won't have to be there much longer."

Worry drew his eyebrows together and he said, "Am I going to jail?"

"No, Walter, you're not going to jail."

He felt only slightly relieved. "Will I go home then?"

She looked at him closely. "No, Walter, you're not going home. You're going to a children's home, where there'll be other kids like you. How do you feel about that?"

"Good," he said, and, for the first time since she met him, he smiled. At least, the corners of his mouth turned up.

Despite what the case worker said, Walter still worried that he might be sent back. At the home, he kept himself clean because he wanted to draw a line from that apartment that was his home until then, the pungent toilet, dishes in the sink, flies buzzing around the trashcan. The daily routines, the timetable, and even the repetition of fish on fridays, roast on sundays, these were welcome in their predictability; never to have to scrounge around, like he did at the apartment to fill his stomach, when she was lying in a stupor after a busy night. He tried very hard not to think about when she was in court, about how she cried.


	2. Fun with Lockpicking

_**Author's notes:**_

_Warning: criminal activities and Tijuana Bibles._

_Watchmen are not mine, this is just fan fiction._

* * *

"You're quick, but you need to work on your right and on blocking," Walter heard. His sparring partner, younger than him but the same size, blanched. He turned to look and there was that big boy that he'd kicked the first week he arrived, Sam Gallagher, leaning over the ropes. With a tilt of his head, Sam dismissed Walter's sparring partner and climbed in.

Walter frowned. He was not sure what the older boy was up to. While Sam pulled on his gloves, Walter observed him. Thick nose, blond hair, muscular, built big and beginning to put on adult weight already. He was way taller than him. "Hitting is only part of it, you know."

He beckoned Walter, arms raised. Walter went in for him. He got a punch to his side, but Sam clipped him in the chest and then on the side of his jaw. The sparring gloves took most of the shock, but he was still left slightly dizzy. He glared at Sam, prepared to carry on. As they fought, he realised where his previous sparring partner held back, Sam would go in for the kill. Walter was soon learning exactly how bad his defence was. Sam spent the next half an hour showing him different combined blocks, jabs and punches.

That was how it started. By some unspoken agreement, the two boys trained together after their lessons, or, rather, Sam taught Walter what he knew. For a very long time, Walter did not say much, but Sam talked to him. As Sam learned more, so Walter likewise learned from him. Their repertoire expanded and their practice sessions lasted more than an hour.

Walter's left was always going to be devastating, but between Sam and the coach, he worked on being proficient in right-handed boxing as well. This would ensure his fighting had an element of unpredictability, throwing most opponents off. He could power punch with either side. He was constantly working on smooth footwork, mastering the ability to change stance at will on his opponent and work from either side.

* * *

"Right, here's a good one. Legs apart, knees bent, lean to grab him, pull close, knee him, pull down to the side, and ... punch down!" Walter hesitated. "Okay, not legal and you won't be using this in the ring." Sam smiled. "But I'm sure it'll be useful." He was picking up bits of different martial arts and passing them on to Walter. In turn, Walter incorporated them, working hard on fast transitions from one style to another.

In time, Walter found himself spending time with not just Sam, but also with his network of friends and allies. Sometimes, he was not sure whether he liked this, he felt more comfortable without a crowd. Yet, since he had spent most of his years being an outcast, shunned or teased for being the son of a prostitute, he was not going to keep aloof, not until he figured them out. Besides, perhaps this was another thing he could learn from Sam.

In later years, when the other boys start with the drugs, Sam was openly disapproving. Sam only smoked the occasional marijuana leaf with his tobacco. Walter did not do any drugs for reasons of his own. He didn't pay attention when Sam scolded Dave, saying it was a mistake for the barman to be a drunkard.

* * *

**1952**

Sam shook his head, unbelieving. "While we're on the subject, why have you been doing that? Gymnastics is g..." He remembered who is speaking to. "Sorry, man, but it isn't exactly a guy thing, is it? All that throwing your legs out in the air..."

Walter, in one fluid movement, placed one hand on the floor, swept his legs sideways towards Sam's ankles. Sam found himself facing the floor. Hiding a grin, Walter held out his hand and helped him up.

"Okay, okay, wise guy, you made your point. Just remember what I said when you start wearing the tights," he said.

One night, after lights out, they met outside Sam's room and sneaked down the corridors. They came to a locked door, no matter, Sam had a key, one that opened up the rest of the doors they meet along the way. But the front door seemed to need a different key, one that he did not have. He let Walter growl for a moment before fishing something out of his pocket, "Allow me," he said. Jiggled only a brief moment before a faint click, and swung the door open with a flourish and a smile.

They snuck into a late screening of a thriller about a violent cop sent away to investigate a case but then falls in love with the sister of the suspect. Later on, when pressed, he told Sam, "Too sentimental after the first half." Assessing Sam's embarrassed silence, he said, "You don't think so? Coincidence, maybe, that she's blind, beautiful and a saint?"

"Oh, come on, guy has got to get his rocks off somehow. There's gotta be something else besides beating people up."

"Nothing wrong with something that works... the romance was just a smokescreen for propaganda for the soft treatment of scum."

He didn't think he said anything funny, but Sam hugged him, chortling, "Scum!" Walter pulled away, feeling heat suffuse his face.

---

After that night, Walter would watch the other boy closely while he picked the locks, until, perhaps just to get him off his back, Sam showed him how he did it. He'd learned from his father's employees whiling away time in between jobs. He showed him his lock-picking set, explaining the different tools and how they were to be used. It became a game, where Sam would time how long Walter would take.

They continued to watch films together. Walter's favorites were detective stories, and, since Sam had a vested interest in gangster films, they had no difficulty finding a common interest. Other times, they roamed the streets, exploring alleyways and avoiding catching the attention of adults. Sometimes, they simply climbed up the roof of a nearby shop and watched the night life play out in the street below, Sam smoking while Walter drank coke.

(The smell of cigarette smoke recalled his mother, overlaid with the sound of hissing, searing skin; a boy's screaming ringing around a street.)

It was during these times that Walter learned much about Sam's father. He gathered that he was some sort of leader in a large business involving affiliations with other ones, that he 'controlled the east side' (as he grew older, he would begin to realise that Sam's father was involved in less than legal activities). Against this hazy backdrop, Sam, talked about the different characters that made up this world, the things they could do and the fighting that went on.

Walter was a good listener for Sam, he didn't interrupt much. He appreciated not being asked too many questions about his home life. The children at Charlton developed a good radar for untouchable topics about each other's past, and Sam was no exception. The men's world that Sam described was unknown to Walter, hitherto guessed at through the comings and goings of his mother's visitors. Walter was avid to learn more outside that context, and the older boy was happy to supply him with stories.

But they spent mostly the nights together. During the day, although Walter knew Sam often skipped school, something in him resisted doing the same, and not just because he actually liked some of the classes. At twelve, Walter had been too much of a loner throughout his childhood. At least now, at the Charlton home, he could occasionally hole himself up to read, watch other kids at play, or play a board game.

* * *

**1953**

Watching the news on television announcing the signing of the Korean armistice with the other children, Walter found himself wondering about his father. Walter was thirteen. Hs voice had started breaking and the training and practicing had their impact, filling out his scrawny short body. Sam, on the other hand, was one of the tallest in his class. He possessed a loud and deep voice and a soft laugh.

Hank Williams, Perry Como and Bing Crosby were at their zenith, rock and roll was beginning to simmer. At their school, they were drilled to duck and cover against a wall. On the television, advertisements touted machines for washing clothes and dishes, cars, vacuums, washing detergents; things to maintain homes that they could, at the most, remember or imagine. The mothers dressed prettily and spent their day cooking dinners, cleaning, and taking care of the children, at the most chiding them mildly, always with a resigned smile. The fathers were away at work all day and came home hanging up their hat and coat along with the outside world. The children (one boy and one girl) would rush into his arms and tell him about their day.

Along with his other books, Walter was reading the comics that they traded and borrowed surreptitiously; comic books being blamed for juvenile delinquency and banned. His favorites were the Minutemen-based series; these were real heroes compared to the ones in the pirate comics. The Comedian, Nite Owl and Hooded Justice, they were powerful and protected people. However, for all that they were local heroes, they also existed in a sphere far far above him, as remote as _I Love Lucy_, as much a fantasy as the faint hope, never expressed, never dwelt upon too long, of seeing a man with a military buzz cut approach and hold out his arms.

The locks in Charlton no longer posed any challenge to Walter, and it became a bit of an obsession for him to work on new ones. He already knew how to deal with the common lock types: pin-tumblers, levers, warded, and so forth. Sam knew a couple of senior boys who told Walter how to open more difficult locks.

One night, they were walking back from another unscheduled outing when Sam stopped outside a building. Walter followed him as he walked around the side and to the back, the concrete of the empty parking lot reflecting the moonlight. He nodded towards the door. Walter understood, his heart beating faster.

Sam nudged him closer to the shadows and kept watch while Walter picked the lock. It was one he was not familiar with, and he was still working it out when Sam shifted suddenly. A couple was walking up towards them, and they squeezed together in the doorway to remain unseen.

When they finally passed, Walter took in a deep breath of air. He turned back to the lock, busying himself with a pick. The lock finally clicked and the pick turned. Walter smiled, an unparalleled sense of triumph flooding his face, heating his cheeks. He turned his face away from Sam even as the other boy patted him fondly on the head. "Well, come on." Sam's whisper pierced the din, smile broad across his face and his hand on Walter's back, guiding him inside.

It was like entering a tomb, and while his eyes adjusted to the new dark, Walter could only smell the mustiness of still air, the hollowness of empty spaces filling his ears with their faintly ominous echoes. Their torches illuminated the pinprick-haze of dust in the air, illuminating the blue carpet, sweeping over the armchairs of a waiting room, reflecting off framed photographs of immaculate properties and houses gridlocked on the walls. It was a real estate agency.

Sam stalked behind the receptionist desk, rifling through the drawers and cupboards and pocketing office stationery as he found them: pens, erasers, paper clips, little doodads. He gave a thumbs up when he found the petty cash box, fingernails tapping against the metal lid in a self-congratulatory rhythm. Walter's eyes met his briefly, half-shrug still in his shoulders, before he stepped into one of the rooms in the corridor beyond.

It was wrong, but, if he was honest with himself, that was part of the excitement. Curiosity filled him: was this how some people spent their days, in places like this? As he dug through the contents of the cupboards, he tried to imagine the room in the day, its occupant (male, meticulously neat, penchant for peanuts) making phone calls and smoking cigarettes. He was in the middle of pocketing a glass paperweight when he heard Sam cry out from another room.

Walter rushed into the room and Sam was there, hunched over a set of drawers, humming excitedly to himself. He turned around, brandishing a couple of booklets in each hand, whispering "Jackpot!" Before Walter could ask, he said, "Found it in one of the drawers. Some of my Dad's associates were moving these!" Thick fingers peeled through the pages, black on thin, cheap paper.

"No time now..."

"You're right, let's go."

* * *

After school the next day, Sam showed Walter the booklets. Walter took one look at them and blushed furiously. Dirty... filthy...

"Oh god, Walter, you haven't seen these before?" The older boy's expression sharpened into something proud and paternal. "These, my man, are what is referred to as 'Tijuana bibles.' They're a bit different from the Lord's Scripture, though. " Sam guffawed at his own joke, and Walter was frozen still, all embarrassment and tomato-red color. One of the books caught his eye, and before he could force himself to look away, he had read the title: _Silk Spectre and the Adventures of the Acme Brushman_. Fascination and distaste warred with each other, his eyes stuttering over the cover image of a very buxom Silk Spectre, nipples and outline of her breasts clearly visible under her costume, legs encased in high heeled boots and stockings--a line from the Bible, _Babylon the great, the mother of harlots_, popped into his head.

Sam thumbed to the first page, opening it with a lascivious _crack_. Walter shuffled farther behind the larger boy, not wanting Sam to see his face even as his eyes peered around Sam's shoulder and _what was she doing with..._

_Oh_. Walter felt the heat start to pool below his abdomen. Sam cleared his throat and twisted his head around as if to say something, but stopped when he saw Walter's expression. Their eyes met and held. The other boy's mouth parted slightly and Walter felt, more than saw, Sam lean down, closer, closer. Walter closed his eyes, feeling lips touch his own. Fear, curiosity and some sort of need held him captive.

A second passed and when Walter opened his eyes again, Sam was looking at him as if nothing had happened. Whatever it was had disappeared into thin air.

"Thinking of going to a warehouse tonight." The challenge in his voice was light, lingering. "You up for it?"

The question was a life saver in floundering dark waters, dark spaces. Walter heard the sound of pins clicking into place and his voice caught in his throat before he answered, "Yes."

* * *

At the warehouse, they found boxes of packaged watches and it was the first time he had ever seen one of those up close. Only the second hand betrayed the clear division between each numeral, evenly traveling around the face, each mark signifying both breakage and continuity. How clever, the person who devised this thing.

That night, he had a nightmare of his mother, similar his other ones. A giant towering above him, breasts pendulous and swaying as she slapped him. The man behind her was pulling him in between them and he was drowning in their soft flesh; Walter was covered over and disappearing. Then, they melted away, leaving him on his own again, the sound of ticking echoing in the silence.

The next morning he woke up, the morning sun beating through the thin curtains, a vague longing filling his chest.

* * *

_AN: It was uncertain whether Tijuana bibles were produced and controlled by 'mom and pop outfits or organised crime,' according to Art Spiegelman (at ). I chose the latter for this story._


	3. A House Call

_**Author's notes:**_

_Warning: crime, non-explicit violence, homophobia, derogatory language_

_Watchmen are not mine, this is just fan fiction._

* * *

A few months later, breaking into different premises had become a regular thing. Their main targets were business premises. Sam would scrutinize a map, thinking aloud and discussing the difficulties of the different locations, until Walter himself was well-versed in such logistics. By now, a couple of other boys joined them, something Walter was not sure about, but, with each success he could not help sharing the sense of camaraderie with the others.

He had become, informally, the locksmith of the group, which suited him fine, after all, that was why he was taking part, wasn't it? And, in fact, the rest of the boys were the same. They all had a reason for being there, were of some use to the rest of them. Sam, of course, led them and had the final say over what they were going to do the nights they got together. He had a special talent for recognizing what they were best at, and playing to their strengths. Out of the collection of kids that were connected to Sam in some way, he spent the most time with Mikey, Dave and Walter.

Tall and muscular, Mikey carried the heavy stuff, and if anything needed to be wrenched off, broken, or lifted, it would be Mikey doing it. He was the one who knew Sam longest. Walter observed that, every now and then, Sam would glance at Mikey and a look would pass and, it seemed, between the two, the final decisions would be made. Walter was most comfortable with Mikey, he was the rare type of person that you never felt like you had to make conversation, could spend hours with without having to say anything.

Dave, in contrast, was a nervy skinny boy, slightly taller than Walter. He was in it for the adrenalin rush; whenever anyone needed to scout ahead, crawl through a narrow space, slip past a guard, he was the first in line. Walter gathered that this was how he ended up at the home in the first place.

He also had a knack for needling people in just the wrong places:

"So, Walter, we never hear about your parents."

"That's because I never talk about them."

"Why?"

"Not much to say."

Walter veered between thinking he was either rather stupid or perhaps actually very smart, just lacking in subtlety. Fortunately, Dave also had a poor attention span and was much too self-involved to really pursue someone else's issues. Dave's incessant chatter sometimes annoyed Walter, but Dave also had another talent, and that was model airplanes and cars. Sometimes, Walter would watch Dave at work, only half-listening as an almost-encyclopedic knowledge of the aircraft in question was rattled off at length. Dave used ready-to-assemble balsa kits, but, with his limited funds, even supplemented by their night adventures, he tended to make his own parts. At first, he appeared to be solely interested in World War II aircraft, but then he started studying photographs of more current models and drawing on those instead.

Walter was the youngest, but he didn't feel he was treated that way. He'd already gained some respect for his quick work on the stairs, but there were incidents, for instance, when he stood up to a bully that was taking the charity Christmas presents of the other children. After this, the mentality of Sam's group seemed to alter--they seemed less concerned with taking down new or weaker kids, and, in fact, they took pride in helping out the smaller children. Sam himself appeared proud of his standing as their benevolent protector, distributing toys and other little gifts amongst them.

* * *

It was the first time Walter was involved in breaking into a house--but not for the others. Dave boasted about previous escapades, creeping and crawling about while the members of the household slept. He laughingly described how they'd shift things about the house for fun, leaving the changes to be discovered in the morning. These stories bothered Walter but he couldn't quite put his finger on the reasons.

Part of Walter was terrified at the risk of being discovered, but there was another that was intoxicated with the sense of danger. There was the challenge of moving through somewhere new without making a sound, like some sort of nocturnal animal, creeping through a forest.

This, this was different, though.

One of the occupants had woken up.

Mikey held the father. He was a tall lad, heavily-built, but, even so, he was having difficulty as the man trashed about violently. Sam's arms immobilised his wife.

But Walter was transfixed by what Dave was doing. He was holding a young boy, probably not much older than five. Walter looked at Sam, who simply stared back speculatively before saying to the father, "Give us whatever money and jewellery you've got or the boy gets it."

Dave flipped a switchblade and held it to the boy's throat. The father froze.

There was a barely audible sound of trickling. A dark stain down the pyjamas between the boy's legs, a puddle forming around his feet. Body shaking, mouth an open maw of terror, no sound coming from his throat.

"Let him go," Walter snarled, holding back only for Sam's sake. Dave looked at Sam, who shook his head.

Walter launched himself at Dave.

A moment later, and they were all running out of the house, speed more important than stealth, Dave bleeding from his nose, Sam cursing behind them. No one followed them. The main thing was to get back safely; no doubt the police would be called, they had to clear the district fast. Walter caught a glare from Sam, the message written plain in his face--_I will deal with you later_.

* * *

Sam stood with his arms across his chest. No one else was around except for Mikey, who was keeping look-out in the hallway.

"I get it, okay? I didn't like it either, with that boy. But it wasn't about you or me, it was about the lot of us getting through it together. When you're in, you're in all the way. That's what it means to be one of us."

Mouth turned down, Walter shook his head, indicating that he did not buy Sam's argument. "You can't let me go unpunished, I know that." He looked at Sam, eyes narrowed. "But what exactly do you think 'we' are 'in'?"

"What we have been doing all this time, Walter. Don't pretend you didn't know."

"That's part of what we were doing, terrorizing kids?"

"Sometimes, we have to do things we don't like."

Walter made a scoffing sound in his throat at this.

His eyes were almost pleading. "Walter, what else is there for people like us? I'll make sure you're looked after, you know. You're talented and I know you like what we do. We work together well."

"No, I was wrong. All of it--wrong." Walter's hands were grasping and pulling at the blanket on either side of him. He glared at Sam. "Worst of all is that you know it's wrong. And yet you do it. Why?"

Sam's patience also seemed to be running out. "Do you want to be some mug, working a crappy job for shit pay?" It was a cruel but true description of his prospects, there was little chance he'd get to go to college. "The father would have caved. And you're talking as if that happens every day. It doesn't." He ended on a note of finality.

Walter's hold on himself broke and he threw himself on his feet, shouting, "Once was enough!"

Things happened quickly after that. Mikey ran in and Sam feinted with a jab at Walter. Unfooled, Walter blocked the hits that followed and got in a punch before Mikey wrenched his arms behind his back.

Sam slapped Walter in the face. "I almost forgot. I believe there's something I owe you." He kicked him hard in the stomach, and Walter doubled over in pain, breath escaping him. Mikey laughed, deep rumbles that Walter felt against his spine.

Sam kneed him under the chin. "Did you think we were friends?" He whispered, "Homo," slipping each syllable into Walter's ear.

_No, he wasn't that. He wasn't the one that- But... but he didn't stop him, did he?_

Sam grabbed his arm with a nod at Mikey, who released it. "I'm a merciful guy, Kovacs, and that's why this is your right hand I'm holding." He singled out Walter's little finger and bent it back, back, back, and-

_Snap._

Walter screamed. He barely heard Sam say, "That's for fucking things up at that house."

He was holding another finger when Walter threw himself backwards against Mikey, breaking free. He lay into Sam with his fists, all finesse thrown to the winds as he punched repeatedly, blood hot and pumping, he was seeing red, all red. Mikey tried to stop him from behind, but Walter just flipped the bigger boy over his shoulder, hurling him at Sam.

Sam fell backward, Mikey tumbling on top of him. They struggled against each other, Sam pushing Mikey off and raising himself up.

"Think you're better than us, whoreson? I've seen your file, you know." Sam spat out blood onto the floor.

"Keep out of my way, Gallagher," Walter said as he left the room.


	4. Lost and Found

_**Author's notes:**_

_Warning: mild swearing, non-explicit references to violence_

_Watchmen are not mine, this is just fan fiction._

* * *

The nurse looked over her glasses, sharp grey eyes trying to drill through his passivity. In one hand, a bag of ice wrapped in what looked like a tea towel. In the other, gauze to wrap around his splint. "Well, Walter, you really must be more careful next time you _train_," she said. It was difficult to deflect her suspicion but at least she asked no more questions.

* * *

Walter dove into his studies and his training; he abandoned comics, obtained through dubious sources as they were. He felt vindicated when word filtered down that some of the Minutemen might be Communists. Obvious now the foolishness of reading scripture as entertaining literature. The clarity of the prescriptions and exhortations of the Old Testament and the epistles found resonance in him. Even the ambivalent passages were intriguing; mysteries left across the ages to be deciphered.

Of pleasure--the poetry and the novels, those were the pleasures still retained; an entry into other worlds, far removed from his own (once, daydreamed while writing, and the ink from the fountain pen sprawled on the paper). Then there was flinging his body through space, catching the bars and swinging around them. He lost himself in the rhythm of kicking, punching, jabbing, the thuds of the punching bag, all the while dancing on his feet, bouncing off the training mat.

As for friendship… most of the friends made through Sam, they tumbled away. Nothing to regret. Simply ignored each other when in the same place. In any case, the boys seemed to have moved on to girls now.

What was more important: he had learned important lessons. Had taken part in breaking the law. Had been foolish not to question kindness. Should have asked whether anyone would really want to be his friend.

Possessed by the novelty and excitement, ousting reason. Remembered words and phrases swept through his mind, like disturbed bats; _A mistake for the barman to be a drunkard_--what else did he miss? Those toys for the favored children ... What did Sam do during the day, when he skipped school?

Walter's voice deepened, became that of a grown man, his body losing the final vestiges of scrawny boyhood. During this time, the music shifted from Hank Williams and Big Momma Thornton to Bill Haley and the Comets and Elvis. Amongst the teenagers, Sam and his friends included, the boys slicked their hair back and the enterprising among them obtained leather jackets. The girls wore poodle skirts, pedal pushers, and their hair went up in pony tails, a far cry from the decent and properly feminine clothes of the past. All this happened around Walter while he had a deep suspicion of what these changes signified and kept himself apart from them.

He went to a film once: "_Two Guns and a Badge_"--Walter had a secret liking for westerns. He sat at the back, eating popcorn. But he'd wasn't used to watching movies on his own. The movies were changing too. Aliens from outer space movies coming to procreate with or decimate the local fertile teenagers. Spoiled children of bloated middle class racing around in motorbikes and expensive leather jackets, torn apart by nothing less than some sort of vague dissatisfaction with their lives and prospects. Hollywood spewing out garbage from its overblown body.

Over time, he worked out that Sam was building his ties outside the school and the home, forging bridges with his father's business. He would stay away from all of it. These things had always gone on, and would always go on, regardless of what he did. Scum floated from below to rise to the top, a never-ending cycle. Mere humans couldn't do a thing about it. Walter thought of fire and brimstone, and the twin cities they rained upon from the heavens.

There were times, though, especially when he boxed, a nausea would rise from his stomach into his throat. Something whispered in the dark; kept him awake and wondering at night.

* * *

**Winter 1954**

The day before Sam left, he was on the roof smoking a cigarette as Walter climbed up the fire escape.

"Well. Decided you know me, after all? Come to say goodbye to an old friend, have ya?" Sam offered a cigarette to Walter, but shook his head. Sam shrugged and carried on puffing.

"'Old friend?'" The disbelief in his tone was thick enough to slice.

"Look..." he said to Walter, but he didn't continue. Instead, he shook his head. "Good times, eh, Kovacs?" Sounding older than his sixteen years, but then again, Sam was always older than his years.

"Been thinking about something I never told you," Sam said, "about my father. You know, big gangster man, henchmen at his back and call." Walter nodded cautiously.

"Dad had this thing about being a man, y'know. Used to hit me whenever I cried as a kid, usual stuff. See you know what I mean. I can't tell you how many times he'd tell me that this or that was pussy. He used to be proud when he got complaints of me fighting at school. Gave me my first beer at eight..."

Although he wondered where this was going, this side of Sam's father intrigued Walter.

Sam continued, "Yeah, my Dad. Anyway, one day, he's drunk and I've done something stupid, I can't even remember what now. He goes ape-shit, I'm not kidding you, Walter, he lit into me with whatever he could get his hands upon. I'd already hidden away his bat, so he reaches out and…" His voice was breaking. "Picks up this ruler. My steel ruler."

They were both looking away from each other, Sam lost in his memory, Walter recalling the anticipation before the hitting began, how it was sometimes even worse than the actual punishment.

"Doesn't care where he hits me. It's all over my arms and legs, and some cuts 'cuz he uses the edge too. Long story short, my teacher sees the damage, there's investigations, and here I am, good ole Charlton." Sam's face scrunched up and one hand clutched his knees, the other holding the glowing cigarette while he shook. "I'll be back with my dad when I leave."

"Do you have to?" He realized as he said it that he wasn't just asking about Sam leaving or where he would live.

He understood but shook his head sadly. "Ah, damn it, Kovacs." He twisted around to look at Walter. "Never thought I'd miss anything about this shithole." Sam pulled him into a hug.

There was that feeling again, the one Walter didn't understand, the one that rendered him immobile. He took a deep breath, drawing strength on the last year and then pushed Sam away, saying, "Get your hands off me. Only here to hear the truth. Why?" And he was himself surprised by the multitude of questions he packed into that one word.

Sam smiled. "You know, they tried to give a little bit of shit for not dealing with you properly. Had to knock a few heads together." Then he looked serious. "Okay. Sure, at the beginning, I was thinking of payback, and sometimes after that. But..." He shrugged, and something in his eyes was deeply frightening, made him skip a breath.

While holding Walter's gaze, he pulled the front of Walter's shirt, leaned down towards him, face closer than it had ever been. "If you tell anyone anything, I'll kill you. Understand?" Walter didn't think this was worth a reply, so he made to remove Sam's hands before he was abruptly released. "Tomorrow, I'm outta here. Don't s'pose you'll be wantin' to hear from me when you get out?"

He didn't answer. He was imagining Sam one day taking over from his father, and the thing that had gripped his throat tightened.

"Thought you might want one of your own, was going to give it to you, back when..." Sam hesitated. Then he was holding something out in his hand, a pouch of some sort, made of leather. "Take it." Walter knew he should not, but knowing did not stop him from receiving the offered gift, Sam's hands against his own and a cool layer of leather in-between. With a soft chuckle, Sam looked away. "Who knows, maybe you'll change your mind one day."

He wished he could throw it back at him, but he had no heart to do it. Walter turned on his heel, confused. It must be anger he was feeling and it had been weak to cave and see him one last time.

* * *

When he returned to his dormitory, Walter unsnapped the pouch and peeled it open, breathing in the new-leather smell. It was a locksmith set: tweezers, pick blades, files and other tools held in place by strips of leather, laid in a bed of velvet, gleaming in a row.

It was so … complete, so new. But that was not the reason he kept it, despite avowing not to do the things he did in those early years at the home. Years later, when he left Charlton, he didn't think about or acknowledge the real reason for packing it into his suitcase--and never would.

(It was a decade before he used it. The reasons then weren't the same ones. He probably would have thought they were better ones.)

* * *

**Autumn 1975**

The leather was worn, and some other tools had been added over the years: some homemade, others discovered in thrift and secondhand tool shops. The scent of newness was long gone; instead, as with everything he wore, the smell of smoke prevailed.

He began with a tension wrench and hook pick to line the pins along the shear. The mortised steel deadbolt was an expensive, high security model--there were not many other ones in its league--and it had a sidebar that would deter the average thief. It was also one with a security vulnerability, and for this, he'd developed a home made decoder out of brass tubes and a wire, made with tools courtesy of the Nest a while back. Once the pins were properly rotated, he pressed the slider with the pick and the lock opened. The hardest one unlocked, he made short work of the two other more average locks.

He slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. Padded silently up the stairs. Found what he was looking for in the second room.

He was reading in bed, white hair now interspersed with blonde. Fear briefly flashed across his face but then he slumped back. "Picks the best locks money can buy, on the short_ish_ side, blended fighting style, southpaw and..." He paused. "Fondness for breaking fingers: kinda knew who you were when I got the details from what was left of my men. Been wondering if you'd ever get around to me." Quiet laughter.

"Apologies, was held up. But I'm here now." He pulled his scarf from around his neck. "Old friend."

**The End.**


End file.
